


A Day in Dreamland

by ObsessedtwibrarianOTB



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Science Fiction, area 51
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6417256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB/pseuds/ObsessedtwibrarianOTB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's "Take Your Daughter to Work Day", but the only problem is he works at Area 51, and visitors are not allowed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in Dreamland

**Author's Note:**

> Second Place winner in the "Crazy Days of April" One-Shot contest on FreeWriters and Readers (FWAR).

He approached the massive steel doors with trepidation, stopping just short of the glowing keypad to gather his courage. The biting cold in the room seeped into his clothes; he shivered, which wasn’t unusual. He’d never gotten used to the frigid air control systems in this place, and he was sure he never would.

He raised a hand, intending to punch the complex code into the entry pad, but his courage faltered. He dropped his hand and stifled a sigh, lest it be heard through the thick steel. On a good day, standing before his superior and presenting him with a slight problem that needed his wise input, was simply frightening. But on a bad day, like this one, the prospect was horrifying. He wasn’t sure how to approach this problem. How was he supposed to ask permission to break the most important rule of this place without losing his life? He cursed her once again for putting him in this delicate and dangerous position in the first place. Her immaturity and selfishness was as limitless as the universe.

He punched in the intricate code and waited nervously for the locks to disengage. Finally, after what seemed like an eon of trying not to shiver out of his skin, the thick steel slid silently open. He gathered his fortitude, cloaking himself in a pretense of bravery, and strode purposefully into the office. He stopped abruptly, shocked into immutable fear at the stern faces staring back at him from behind the massive desk: not just his superior, but five others seated comfortably in plush leather chairs.

 _Fuck, fuck, FUCK!_ He was careful to keep his expression blank while indulging in a fit of silent cursing using her favorite word. He loved the raw, brutal sound of it, and only wished he could utter it aloud, and with as much fierceness, as she did on a daily basis.

“What is the reason for this meeting?” his superior asked, his voice as chilled as the air in the room.

“I have a… _delicate_ …problem, sir.”

Soft laughter broke the seconds of strained silence following his answer, the sound glaringly incongruent with the cold, steel-walled office. “There is no such thing as a delicate problem here,” one of the five commented, still chuckling.

He gave the smirking man a slight nod. “Yes, well, perhaps I misspoke. This is a very _troubling_ problem and, frankly, I’m unsure how to handle it, which is why I requested this meeting.”

“Go on,” his superior said.

“It concerns my teenage daughter and this ridiculous holiday she insists she must celebrate, or else her marks at school will suffer greatly, which she states will be completely my fault for being an unsupportive father who only seems to have time for his work and not her.”

His superior frowned at the end of his run-on statement. “I fail to see what any of that has to do with us. Clarify, please.”

He let out the long-stifled sigh, hoping it would effectively convey his frustration with his daughter and her unreasonable demands. “This Thursday, April 24th, is Take Your Daughter to Work Day, and she has asked that I bring her here so she can see what I do all day and write a report on it to present to her class.”

“Impossible,” stated one of the five emphatically.

“Absolutely not!” exclaimed another.

“Is that even a real holiday??” asked yet another.

“Tell her no,” said my superior coldly.

 _Spoken like someone without an unruly teenage daughter._ “It’s not that simple, sir. And this is where the problem becomes troubling. I said no to her in the beginning, but now she is threatening to go on Facebook and Twitter and post a status saying her father works at Area 51 and dissects aliens all day so we can use their body parts to create a human/alien hybrid race to take over the Earth.“

A chorus of unbridled laughter broke out in the room. Even his normally stiff superior was joining in.

“Dissecting aliens? A hybrid race?? Why in the world would we want that? And where did your daughter get such a ludicrous idea? ” his superior asked after he managed to stop laughing.

“The internet, sir. The conspiracy theories are everywhere, unfortunately. Of course I followed procedure, expounding on the generally accepted notion that this facility is heavily involved in experimental aircraft research for the federal government, nothing more.”

The room was silent again, the laughter of before already a distant memory. “How would your daughter even know you work here? Have you violated protocol?”

 _Fuck._ He had a growing suspicion this meeting was not going to end positively. “Sir, my daughter—although extremely foolish most of the time—demonstrates on rare occasions a particular brilliance. Or perhaps it was just intuition. Regardless, we live in Las Vegas. She knows her father doesn’t catch the local transit to go to work, that instead, he leaves from McCarron International Airport every day. I am also classified _publicly_ as a U.S. Air Force employee. Therefore, my daughter quite effectively put two and two together and rather inconveniently came up with the correct answer.”

“Sir, may I interject here?” asked one of the five, directing his question to his superior, who nodded his approval. “I am the staff psychologist,” he provided, smiling, as if that would ease his nervousness. In fact, it only increased it. He had a healthy suspicion of anyone who purported to understand the inner workings of someone’s mind.

“If I may ask, are you content with your family situation?” Before he could even form a thought regarding the intrusive question, the psychologist continued. “And just so you know, it is quite common for those of us who devote ourselves so fully to our work to feel overwhelmed by our outside obligations. It’s perfectly normal, understandable even, considering the unusual circumstances of our mission. So, are you happy… _out there?”_

The question took him completely aback and left him floundering for an answer. His wife had been gone for several years—as his superior already knew—taking her invaluable support with her. Her desertion of her family was still a lingering mystery yet to be solved. His daughter was proving to be a difficult challenge for him to handle all alone; her continual foolish antics and immature demands frequently frustrated him. His focus was suffering, and that would not be allowed to continue. The employee handbook was quite clear on that matter.

“Some days I am quite content and love the life I have chosen,” he answered truthfully. “But on other days, I find myself contemplating committing unconscionable acts against my daughter, the least of which is closing my hands around her neck and squeezing until she shuts up. I'm told this love-hate relationship with one's children is quite common. But at times, I find the social intricacies of her life to be a major distraction, which ultimately affects the quality of my work. Then there are those rare moments when she adds depth and beauty to my life, and I regret my shortness with her."

The man considered him for a few moments, then nodded and smiled graciously. “Thank you for your honesty.” The psychologist then looked to his superior; their exchanged glances seemed loaded with meaning. Finally, an infinitesimal nod by his superior seemed to put an invisible period at the end of their silent conversation.

His superior turned his attention, as well as his piercing gaze, back to him. “We think this problem would be best solved by allowing you to choose its resolution, and there are only two choices available. One: you tell your daughter emphatically that you will not bring her to work with you because it is not allowed. If she divulges information on social networks that ultimately compromises the mission of this facility, then you, as her guardian, have failed to maintain the level of secrecy required of you. That will be considered a major security breech. Protocol is very clear on the action that will be taken.

“Two: bring your daughter to work with you on Thursday. We will provide you with the necessary security clearances. Let her spend the day in Dreamland with us. Show her around the facility. Show her what you do every day; explain your experiments and their importance to our lives. Let her see the future. Let her see the truth. But of course, you must realize that once she learns of our mission, even with our clearances, security will have been breached. Protocol is quite clear on the action that will be taken.” His superior smiled. “The choice is entirely yours.”

He nodded politely, considering himself lucky he was even being given a choice. He murmured a respectful ‘Thank you, sir’, before backing out of the room. He carefully hid his consternation until the steel doors silently slid shut again.

He had a great deal to think about between then and Thursday, and a very difficult decision to make: specifically, who was going to die on April 24th, him or his daughter?

 

*************************************

 

The ride to the airport was a gloriously freeing experience. All the years of secrecy, all the careful machinations to keep the truth from her were finally over. He drove in contentment while listening patiently to her nearly constant and excited chatter.

“Oh my God, I’m finally going to see Area 51! I can’t believe it! Will I get to see the Roswell UFO and the bodies of the dead alien pilots? What about the top-secret aircraft they’re working on for the government? Will you show me that? And is that alien still alive who was on that video getting his head shrunk? Fuck. He’s probably ancient by now, right? Oh wait! Do they have cell service there? Can I snapchat?” A rare moment of her particular brilliance suddenly kicked in. “Fuck me. Cells aren’t allowed, are they?”

He shook his head. Not only were they not allowed, they wouldn’t have worked even if they were. State-of-the-art technology shielded the entire facility; an unauthorized cell signal had no hope of getting past their digital security. Dreamland had more advanced means of communication anyway, none of which were currently available to the general public.

“Would you please stop calling it Area 51?” That sterile designation irked the fuck out of him.

“No, because…duh…that’s it name.”

He gritted his teeth at her smug, superior tone, thankful his hands were molded tightly to the steering wheel, making strangulation-while-driving a virtual impossibility.

“A Lepidoptera is the scientific name for a butterfly, but we don’t call it that because that word demeans the beauty of the life form itself. Area 51 is a similarly ugly name based on a grid numbering system used by the Atomic Energy Commission. Those of us who work there prefer the name Dreamland, because Dreamland is a place where our dreams for the future of this planet are being developed and realized. I strongly advise you not to utter the words ‘Area 51’ once we board the plane. It’s highly offensive to everyone who works there and I will not be responsible for the reaction you will receive.”

"Wow," she said, sighing dramatically, without acknowledging his warning. "My father is part of changing the future of the planet. That is so swag."

His daughter had no clue just how unbelievably swag he truly was, but she was about to find out.

***********************************

  
“This is where the Aurora Two program is housed,” he said as they entered a massive underground area resembling an aircraft hangar. “And that sleek ebony goddess—“ He pointed to the one-hundred and thirty feet of specially coated aluminum sitting in the center of the huge space. “—is the latest prototype. It’s one hundred percent invisible to radar, no exceptions, and when it flies, it tears up the sky…literally. It has warp capabilities.”

“Like Star Trek!” she said, grinning.

He grimaced at her infantile comparison. “Gene Roddenberry was a moron. Our warp capability is nothing like that archaic drivel he came up with."

She made her way to the aircraft. The workers milling around it were polite to her and readily stopped their work to answer her questions. Her security clearance, so graciously provided by his superior, ensured nothing would be withheld from her.

Eventually, he pried her away from the aircraft and out of the hangar, directing her to an elevator which would take them even deeper into the earth’s core. The steel doors smoothly slid open onto one of the most revered areas of the facility: The Roswell Rooms. When she saw the elegant gold lettering above the entrance, she squealed with delight. Her screeching ruined the hushed, hallowed atmosphere of the museum.

“No loud noises!” he snapped, then immediately dropped the level of his voice, regretting he’d been forced to shout. “This is a very special place. I insist you display the appropriate reverence when you see what is displayed in these rooms.”

Her eyebrows arched curiously, but she obeyed and clapped her mouth shut, following him obediently into the first room. Instantly, her eyes widened and she couldn’t stop her shocked gasp from escaping into the silence.

“Oh. My. God,” she whispered reverently. “This is the UFO.”

“Yes,” he answered softly. “This craft gave birth to the dream of this facility, and the people in the next room are considered the founders—or _parents_ , if you will—of Dreamland.”

She gasped again, her head turning sharply in the direction of the darkened arched doorway. He led her through it and stopped just beyond the barrier that separated them from the mummified bodies encased in the environmentally-controlled container. Strategically placed lighting cast an ethereal glow on the display.

“These are the alien pilots!” she softly exclaimed. “You preserved them! This defies swag! I don’t even have a word for how fucking awesome this is!”

He smiled, his gaze fixed on the two forms staring back at him through the glass with dulled, ghostly-white pupils, their expressions blank, their movements forever stilled, their thoughts and words eternally silenced. He couldn’t count the times he’d wished for them to reanimate so he could talk with them and learn from their life experiences, but they were truly dead. As technologically advanced as they were, it was still beyond the scope of their abilities to bring them back to life. The thought made him incredibly sad.

“Do you know where they came from and why they were here?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered, nodding his head toward the placard attached to the bottom of the case. “It’s all there: their names, their home planet as well as their mission. We know everything about them because the military personnel who found them were able to establish rudimentary communication before they expired.”

“Wow,” she breathed as she read the placard. “These words look like the alien version of Pig Latin. I can’t even pronounce half of them.”

He bristled at her insensitive criticism of something she knew nothing about. Their language was not even remotely related to that bastardized version of English. It was overwhelmingly beautiful, with a subtle complexity she would never understand.

They lingered there for awhile as she moved back and forth between the rooms, alternately studying the craft, then gazing in silence at the mummified bodies of the pilots. He was finally forced to pull her away; there was still much more for her to see.

Next, he showed her the Technology Center. “This is where all the technological developments for this nation are first conceived then built and tested,” he said, directing her attention to a team of workers holding cell phones up to their ear. “We’re putting the final touches on the iPhone 8s.”

Her mouth fell open; her hands found a defiant home on her hips. “8s?? What the fuck?? I just got the 5c a couple of months ago!!”

He smirked. “We like to stay ahead of the game.”

As he led her around the massive room and they visited each ongoing project, he patiently dispelled all of her silly notions about the free market economy. Every single technological innovation since 1947 had originated from Dreamland’s Technology Center: holography, the first mobile phone, transistors, Velcro, the first video tape recorder, black box flight recorders, hovercraft, oral contraceptives, the computer modem, and the list went on and on. The finest scientific minds, the most ambitious innovators, the most dedicated researchers and talented inventors had been brought to Dreamland and had been allowed to let their imaginations run free.

She frowned. “But what about Steve Jobs, Bill Gates and all those other old dudes who sold everybody this stuff? They said _they_ invented it.”

"We developed the technology here then sold the patent rights to them, allowing them to claim ownership of the idea, as well as the profits from it.”

Her frowned deepened. “But why would you do that?”

“It’s a type of bartering system,” he explained. “We give them new, innovative products to sell and in return they give us what we need to operate Dreamland. We scratch each other’s backs. It’s worked out very well for us.”

She was frowning, silently struggling to complete the puzzle that was Dreamland, but there were yet too many pieces missing.

"I can tell you don't understand," he said sympathetically. "But perhaps when you see what I do, all of this will become clearer."

Her face lit up with excitement. He took a moment to gather his thoughts and to remember the carefully crafted responses he'd planned for her inevitable questions. A bit of courage wouldn't hurt him either, not that he was afraid of her seeing what he did all day. He wasn't. Nor was he ashamed of his work. On the contrary, he was exceedingly proud that his experiments were some of the most vital components of their mission.

"My job description is 'Medical Researcher'," he explained as they made their way to the Research Center. "I spend all day with the recently deceased, identifying and analyzing the varied bacteria and viruses that caused their deaths. I find the field of communicable diseases extremely fascinating."

"So you really _do_ dissect aliens all day," she said smugly.

He chuckled. "Not exactly."

He punched his security clearance code into the keypad and took a deep, calming breath as the thick steel doors slid open. When they closed behind them, he let the breath out, feeling suddenly relaxed and happy, as he always did when he entered his laboratory. He turned to his daughter and laid a fatherly hand upon her arm. "This is a medical facility, so you may see some unpleasant things. If you feel queasy or are unable to continue the tour, just let me know and we'll leave."

She snorted, rolling her eyes and smirking. "I'll be fine. I'm almost seventeen. I'm not a baby anymore, you know."

Normally, before entering his lab, visitors were required to dress in special clothing which protected them from contracting any nasty diseases from the corpses, but his daughter's jeans and t-shirt would be all the protection she'd need today.

"I'm currently researching twenty different pathogens." He gestured to the twenty glass cubicles that took up one entire wall of his lab. The curtains on each small room were pulled tight so that anyone standing on the outside couldn't see in. "The process does, at times, involve dissection, which is why the curtains are drawn."

"Oooh, I want to see the dissected aliens," she said, her voice carrying more delight than he felt appropriate. In fact, he was dismayed at the thought of her actually experiencing pleasure at seeing alien bodies chopped up into little pieces like they were nothing but animals.

He managed a weak smile and a nod. "Be my guest."

As she walked slowly across the room, he tried to prepare himself for her reaction upon finally seeing what he did all day. Would she approve or would she condemn him? Would she understand the importance of his work, or would she only see the blood and gore?

She reached out a cautious hand—her enthusiasm of before seemed to have waned somewhat—and slowly drew open the curtain on the third cubicle from the left. It was a random selection on her part, but not one he would have suggested for a first look. But there was nothing to be done about it at that point. He heard her horrified profane gasp, then strangled choking as her breakfast gurgled up her throat and spewed out of her mouth. Then she collapsed, crashing to the floor, an inert tangle of blond hair mixed with sour vomit.

He sighed in disappointment. _I guess she can't see past the blood and gore after all._

 

*********************************

 

He'd carried her inert body out of the lab and into his office and cleaned her up as best he could, but the acrid smell of vomit still hung in the air. Her eyes were open now and staring at him, her expression unreadable for once.

"That wasn't an alien. That was a human being...a real _person_ ," she said accusingly.

He bristled at the distinction, but nodded. "Yes."

"Do the other nineteen rooms have chopped up people in them, too?"

"Yes."

She laughed; it was a brief, bitter sound. "Does the CIA know you cut up people all day? The FBI? Does the president know? Maybe someone should tell them." And of course, he could tell by her tone that she brazenly thought _she_ should be the one to tattle this terrible secret.

It was his turn to laugh. "The CIA and the FBI don't know, but your president and his closest advisers do. Who do you think keeps me supplied with fresh corpses to study?"

Her eyes narrowed, her body suddenly tense. " _Your_ president?" she said, picking up on his deliberate choice of words. "What do you mean, _your_ president??"

Instead of telling her, he showed her what he meant, with his eyes. She screamed, then a vulgar stream of expletives followed. She exploded out of her chair, stumbling back against the wall in fear and confusion. "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU??!"

"I'm your father," he answered softly.

"No! You're _not_ my father!!" she screamed. "You're a fucking alien, just like those creatures in that room! You're a fucking _monster_!!"

His temper flared to life, but he kept his tone several decibels lower than hers. He was, after all, the adult in the room. "Your biological human father is the real monster!" he snapped. "He deserted you before you even made it out of your mother's body, just because your conception was unplanned. I voluntarily stepped in and became part of your family. I chose you as my daughter because I wanted to be a father. Have I really treated you so badly that you would call me a monster without conscience? Even though we argue almost daily, have I not consistently loved you, protected you, and nurtured you all your life? What does it matter what species I am??"

He'd expected the usual rebuttal of a typical teenager, including a list of all of his parental faults and shortcomings, but all he got was a prolonged silence and her deep blue eyes staring a hole in his face. He'd expected shock and anger, but he'd not anticipated outright rejection. He certainly did not want this day to end with her hating him. But when the beautiful azure in her eyes began to ripple and move like the water in a pond when the wind skips across it, when she looked away and her mouth trembled, he knew without her saying it. She didn't think him a monster; she didn't hate him. She loved her alien father.

She swiped at her eyes and returned to her chair. "So, is everyone in this place an alien...I mean...not human?"

He nodded. "You are the only human here, except for the corpses, of course."

She swallowed hard, but he could almost see the synapses firing inside her mind. On those rare occasions when his daughter applied herself to a problem, her brilliance was stunning. He mentally steeled himself for the questions that were coming and the consequences of his answers.

"So, let me get this straight," she said. "Area 51, I mean _Dreamland_ , is ran by an alien race and the president knows this. Okay, I got that. And you guys invent things for us—awesome things like that plane and phones and stuff—in exchange for...for..." She hesitated while her mind worked it out.

"Your species places great importance on money, material objects and power, so it has not been difficult to buy anonymity and protection from your leaders in government or your business community," he finished.

She nodded, but was still frowning. "I get that, too. But, we already have a ton of medical researchers all over the U.S. trying to find cures for diseases. No offense, Dad, but why do they need _you?_ "

He sighed as the strength of his convictions suddenly weakened in the face of what he must tell his daughter. "You misunderstand," he said gently, knowing the effect his words were going to have on her. "We are not searching for cures. We're searching for the Perfect Pathogen, that one particular infectious agent that will be impervious to attack, one that will not respond to medical intervention of any kind, including vaccinations."

As the truth slowly revealed itself inside her mind, he watched in utter parental fascination as she courageously threw off the trappings of her teenage immaturity. What was revealed underneath was a strong and brave young woman who he was proud to call his daughter. She not only got it, she understood.

"When you find it, you're going to release it," she stated softly with no sign of fear in her voice.

"Yes.”

Instead of tears or hysterics, he saw only intense curiosity. "Why? Is your home planet dying or something like that?"

"On the contrary, my home planet is fucking amazing, as you would so eloquently state it."

She actually snickered and he smiled with her. A deep and profound sadness suddenly settled upon his entire being, a sadness so heavy and laden with guilt that he wondered if he would ever be free of its crushing weight.

"We wanted a second home, something similar to your concept of a winter residence," he continued. "When atmospheric conditions on our home planet get a bit uncomfortable, like they always do at certain times in our orbital phases, we wanted somewhere more pleasant to escape to."

Her full lips thinned to the point of almost disappearing into her face, an all too familiar sign that his daughter was extremely angry. "That is so fucked up."

"But not without precedent," he added quickly before she could unleash her temper. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't your people do the same thing to the natives who lived on the very ground this facility is standing on? Your ancestors saw some very nice land they wanted, but someone was already living there, so they got rid of the inhabitants first and then moved right on in."

She glared at him. "Well, yeah, that happened. But it was wrong then, and it's wrong now."

"Perhaps," he conceded. "But there is one universal truth that never seems to change, no matter what planet you live on or in what galaxy, and that is that the weak always ends up crushed beneath the boot of the strong. The truth is not limited by simplistic concepts like right or wrong, my daughter. The truth just... _is._ The one who is strong today will eventually end up the weak one, given enough time. That is the truth. Do you understand?"

"It's our turn to be the weak one."

She understood. "Yes, unfortunately that is your species' truth at this particular moment in time. I'm sorry."

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then rose from her chair. "Well, I sure can't put any of this in my report, so it's lie-your-ass-off time, isn't it?"

A lump was forming in his host body's throat. He hated the leaden feel of it. He understood the science of it, that it was a combination of psychological and physiological factors causing the discomfort, but he hated it nonetheless and wondered how humans stood it. "There isn't going to be any report," he stated softly, but firmly.

Her gaze rose to meet his, at first rebellious, then finally understanding dawned. "You're not going to let me leave?"

"No."

Her mouth dropped open and small bit of her sixteen year old rebellion leaked out. "You're going to make me live the rest of my life in this fucking underground steel monstrosity??! I can't even use my phone!! How the fuck am I supposed to have a life in this place??"

Sometimes silence spoke louder than words, which was good, because he found himself unable to force the answers from his own throat.

"Oh my god." She backed away from him again, repeating the same three words over and over until the wall stopped her backward progress. "I'm not going to have a life, am I? They're going to kill me because I know what they're planning."

"No, _they_ are not going to kill you," he said softly. "I am."

And with those last two words, he got the response one would expect from a sixteen-year-old girl staring death in the face. She hurled the vilest of curses at him, issued a string of empty threats—including her desire to kill him in the most painful way she could find—and ended her tirade by charging across the room and attempting to hit him. He'd allowed her tantrum up to that point, but he was not going to tolerate physical violence from her. He wrapped his arms tightly around her body and held her fast while she struggled against him, spat curses at him, kicked viciously at his legs and screamed that she hated him. He held her until her rage ran its course, then he continued to hold her after the struggling stopped and the sobbing started. He was startled when he realized tears were also running down his own cheeks. He'd experienced many sensations while occupying this human body, but he'd never cried. They were strange things, these tears. They were just harmless quantities of liquid spilling from the ducts in his eyes, but they hurt like nothing he'd ever experienced.

"I love you," he whispered into her hair when the crying finally stopped. "I know you don't believe me, but I love you more than you can know."

She wriggled out of his arms and collapsed into the chair. "I love you and that's why I have to kill you...said no _real_ father ever."

That stung, but he ignored the pain. While she stared at the floor, he dried his face and went over what he'd planned to say, hoping she would understand and not hate him in the end. Her gaze was still on the floor when he started explaining about the two choices his superior had given him. If he'd denied her request to visit his work and she'd blurted out his secrets all over the place and compromised their mission, then they would have killed _him._ If he brought her here, like he'd ultimately decided to do, and allowed her to see the truth, then they would kill _her_ because it violated protocol for humans to know of their mission.

"My daughter, please look at me," he implored softly. "Please."

After the few moments of defiance that seemed to be required whenever a parent asked something of their teenage child, she finally raised her eyes to his.

"I have isolated the Perfect Pathogen." He paused to let the import of that statement sink in. "It's in the final testing stages. We project the release date to be within the next three weeks. What you must understand is that if they'd killed me instead of you, it would have changed nothing. I am just one small cog in a very big wheel. Another researcher would have stepped in and continued my work. The end result would have been the same.

"When we release this virus upon the population, all human life will be eradicated within a year. I have seen this pathogen at work during testing. It does not kill quickly. The humans we tested it on lingered for weeks in horrible pain, growing continually weaker as their organs slowly shut down one-by-one, until finally their heart just stopped fighting. Some even chose to take their own life rather than suffer. There will be no medicines available that will ease the pain of this disease, let alone stop it. No vaccines to prevent it. Furthermore, it has been decreed by our superior that not a single human is to be spared, and there will be absolutely _no_ exceptions.

"I want to watch my daughter suffer in excruciating agony for weeks while an incurable disease ravages her body...said no _real_ father ever," he finished softly.

Tears coursed down her face, but she ignored them and bravely held his gaze. They didn't speak, but for the first time since he'd volunteered to raise this human child as his own, he felt a deep connection with her, like they were finally communicating as equals, instead of father and daughter, instead of alien and human. Equals.

"I would rather slide the needle into your vein myself than have you go back out there and die like that. I want to be with you; I want to hold you as you breathe your last and know I did all I could to give you a dignified death. I want you to know when you finally close your eyes and go to sleep, that I loved you more than I've ever loved anything else in my life, and that is why I made this choice."

And he would suffer a lifetime of guilt and grief after her death, but that was not something she needed to know. He would carry that burden, and he deserved to. Unlike the people in her history books, there would be many in his species who would never forget what was done to the humans on this planet, especially the ones like him, who had made the decision to become part of their lives.

She reached for him, and in moments they were embracing. When they pulled apart, she sniffed, wiped at her face, and he saw the brave young woman return. "So...right now?"

He shook his head. "No, not this very moment. We still have some time."

She nodded, swallowed hard, then smiled bravely. "I love the fuck out of you, Daddy."

Despite his profound sadness, he smiled, too.

*************************

 

"He's going to kill her??" someone blurted out.

"Well, _that_ sucks!" someone else said, snickering.

The snicker spread and pretty soon they were all laughing, including him. All that snot-and-tears drama over a meaningless little teenager. For a supposedly superior race, these aliens were a pretty dumb fucking lot, and that one in particular was the most idiotic one of all, confirming his belief that _stupidity_ , not strength, was the universal truth. Who in their right mind would form emotional attachments with the cockroaches that scurried beneath their feet?? He shook his head and turned off the monitor, swiveling around in his chair to face the five men in the room.

"Yes, unfortunately spies have an inconveniently short shelf life sometimes, especially the unwitting ones." He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. "But we don't need her anymore. She served her purpose. Thanks to her proclivity for drinking to excess, which allowed us to put an implant into her cornea—which those idiots failed to find in their security procedures—we now know what they're going to do. This couldn't have worked out better if we'd planned it ourselves."

"So, what's the plan?" one of the men asked.

He grinned widely and laughed. "Plan?? We don't need a plan, boys. We're just going to get us a big stash of Cubans and a shitload of smooth whiskey, kick our asses back and watch this show play out. The dumb fuckers are doing all the work for us!"

Laughter took over the room again, along with the usual racist and bigoted comments about the inferiority of "The Dreamers", as they so "lovingly" referred to their resident pet aliens.

"He said it's going to take a year to get rid of the vermin on this planet, so we're just going wait it out. I’ll get on television and make the usual speeches about how much I love the American people, and their president is doing everything he can to find a cure for this horribly tragic disease, blah, blah, blah. Then we'll do absolutely nothing we promised to do."

"So, business as usual?" someone asked, chuckling.

Laughter consumed the room until one lone voice interrupted. "And when all the humans are gone, then what?"

He swung his feet off the desk and leaned forward, giving the man a leering grin. "And then, Mr. Vice-President of the soon-to-be nonexistent United States, that is when the war begins.

"And may the best alien race win."

**** THE END ****

 


End file.
